Unmapped
by uncannyraven
Summary: "I love you." you say. "I love you too." I think, but the words do not make themselves known. Prophine AU. Possible two-shot. Rachel's POV.


Today is the first time you tell me that you love me.

Three simple words.

"I love you."

You mumble them into my left ear just before you close your eyes to sleep.

I watch you sleep. I stay awake for three hours. You're distracting me.

**You make me not want to sleep. **

I watch you as your chest rises and falls.

Your hair is already messy from the tossing and turning around in the bed-sheets. But you're still outstandingly beautiful. I just never tell you that.

The breath hitches and your chest catches it. You must have fallen in your dream.

But I'm falling, **here**.

* * *

Today is the second time you tell me that you love me.

The words come past your lips in a more determined manner, this time.

We're eating the dinner you prepared for us.

The famous french crêpes.

They're lovely. I appreciate them so.

But your words startle me, and I stop chewing for a few seconds.

I focus on your eyes and that stare that you're giving me.

You're expecting _something,_ maybe.

You're expecting those three words to come out of my mouth, in return.

But I do not utter a word.

I tilt my head to the side, ever so slightly, and eye you. I almost forget that my stare shouldn't be sharp. I do not want you to feel like you should take your words back.

But no words come out of my mouth.

The room is filled with silence, until I push another piece of crêpe onto my fork.

The sound of metal against my place resonates in the empty silence that envelops us, _drowns us,_ almost.

You just lower your head.

I still do not utter a word.

* * *

Today is the third time you tell me you that love me.

This time it's out of frustration.

You must have been thinking about this all day.

Pondering.

Slowly breaking.

You walk into our room, and you're angry, I can feel it.

It radiates off your skin. Like electricity.

I place my book on the bedside table because you want a word with me.

You ask, "I _love_ you. _Je t'aime._ Do you not love me?"

Your voice is filled with sadness, exasperation. Yet it still has that touch of affection I've always liked.

But I do not answer. I just look at you and hope that my eyes do not betray me.

"Do you not love me, Rachel?" you repeat. This time, your voice trembles, threatening to falter mid-sentence.

I take a breath in, and stare at her, still.

You won't drop the subject that easily. However, possible out of annoyance, you sit up from the bed and walk towards the door.

And somehow I feel like this is a **warning**.

**_Dangerous._**

The door closes behind you and I am left alone in this room. And although the lights were on, it still felt dark.

The type of darkness that sucks you in.

The type of darkness that forces you to look into the past.

I need out of here. Out of the darkness that's swallowing me whole.

My legs take me to the door, and I travel the hallway before reaching the living-room.

That's where you are, sitting crossed legged on our favorite couch. Your curls are locked between your fingers, and you look down at your dark blue socks.

As I move towards you, I try to weigh my words.

_What do I say?_

_How do I say it?_

Usually things were planned, in my world. But _this,_ this was going to be spontaneous. I won't be able to control it.

I hope it won't turn out to be a ticking bomb.

I quietly place myself next to you on the sofa. Not to close, not too far away.

After I say your name, I look into your eyes. Eyes that make me want to tell you I love you. But it's not enough, isn't it?

"Why don't you say it back, Rachel?"

I sigh, and this time I speak, "I fear."

Did it come out well? I do not know. But I do know that it is not a habit to tell you about my feelings, so I feel the tops of my cheeks reddening while I pause in my speech.

I say, "I fear that I no longer know how to love."

My voice is strong, because I was pushing it to be so. But you look at me, still.

My words hit me then. A few memories come back to me. I recollect the look of unwillingness that men used to give me. I receive the souvenir of a despaired father who no longer sees his daughter as his daughter.

The hope of wanting to be able to love you as you deserve it, it strikes me, then.

I'm_** fearful**_.

Your face softens, however, although I do notice that your eyes are watering.

I do not need this.

"Oh, _ma chérie._" you say.

I say nothing to this.

"Rachel, **_listen to me_**, _ma chérie_,"

Your palms lightly touch my cheeks.

I can only look at her.

"_Ma chérie_, oh, I will **_teach_** you how to love."

My hope grows wings.


End file.
